Mission 8.1: Couriers of Cruelty - Objective A

After CIS forces were dislodged from Ryloth, Jagserd Merad, an infamous and powerful Zygerrian slaver, retreated from the planet. Intercepted transmissions revealed that his fleet would pass over Gamor: The final CIS bastion in the sector; such transmissions also laid bare a sickening secret, the Zygerrian empire had buddied up with allies of the Republic. Operating on their own initiative, the 253rd commenced a covert operation to sever the head of this snake.

For the troopers of the 253rd, the operation began with a jarring exit from hyperspace. As the hand picked fire teams filtered into the Absolver’s main staging bay, they knew something was off, an unusual sight greeted them: the bay was clean and barren, missing its sprawling piles of equipment and spread of tanks and LAATs; In their place, a handful of luxurious NU and RHO class shuttles waited patiently. Instructions began blaring over the hanger speakers. In no time, the squads were loaded, and engines started spooling up.

The shuttles were jettisoned into the vast void of space; as soon as the last ship was clear, the Absolver armed its hyperdrive and blinked away. Communications were to be kept minimal, extra signals risked the mission, it was the last time the troopers would hear from home for a couple weeks.

Atmospheric entry was a roller coaster ride as always, jostling the troopers around as the burdened dropships plummeted into Gamor’s atmosphere. An inferno gathered on the nose of Tomb’s ship, the helpless troopers watched anxiously. With masterful skill and care, the pilots guided the red NU towards the ground, their chatter offering the uneasy soldiers respite.

“Hull integrity holding, deflector systems nominal.”

Finally, the descent was over, the squadron of shuttles leveling out and gliding over the dense flooded forests; the ships split off into two groups: one heading towards the outskirts of Gamor’s capital, the other out into the endless swamps. As the world zipped by in a dark green haze, the troopers were awestruck: nestled in the entwined expanse of foliage, was the Zygerrian encampment. Klicks upon klicks of ground had to be manually and tediously combed through; a general understanding of the camp’s location was known, but scans and aerial reconnaissance were off the menu. Tomb’s shoulders sank, already feeling tired just thinking about it.

The ship's speakers crackled to life —”Fire team Farang! Ready up, ETA to dropzone is two minutes.”

Weapons, rations, bags, med kits, the works had been checked thoroughly, kneeling down, the troopers ran through their gear one last time, with as much consideration as they could afford. A sudden stop, and the feeling of the floor falling out from their feet ment they had arrived. Ramp hydraulics began hissing as the last of the gear was buttoned up; the door of the cargo hold cracked open, letting in the ear splitting roar of the engines; as the ramp lowered, a flurry of cold moist air and the stench of rotten plants funneled into the cabin. Balancing his way across, Tomb approached the edge of the ramp; leaning over its edge, he scanned the world below. Dark black water chaotically wobbled beneath a patchy blanket of lime green algae; bursts of cattails and other stiff stalky plants endured the restless murky water. Hovering a few feet above it all, the ship sat perched on its engines, their force spraying the black water every which way. Stubbornly, the trees refused to surrender to the torrent of power, their branches swayed and only the leaves angrily snapped back and forth. Above, the stars barely burrowed through the dark blanket of the night sky; their slow drift through the void unnoticeable. Sucking in a breath of filtered cold air and sharply forcing it back out, Tomb leapt down, his arms outstretched like wings to stabilize his fall.

Crashing into the cold cascading water, Tomb’s knees jarred as his feet met the mucky swamp floor; the mud letting out sucking sound as it grabbed hold of his boots — the water was deeper than he expected; he folded, collapsing onto his bum. Only the white fin of his helmet stuck out above the choppy water. Looming over from the ship’s ramp, his squad mates chuckled as he sloshed around trying to find his footing. Gracefully, they splashed down, using Tomb to gauge the water’s depth. Above the troopers, the shuttle rose, barely clearing the tree line and darting away, hugging the forest canopy in an effort to reduce the chance of detection; its obnoxiously vocal engines quickly fading into the whispering wind and peaceful natural rustle of the leaves. Understanding how loud the ship was, the troopers waited in silence, curious to see if anything would happen. Gusts of wind filtered through the sunken forest, water lapped at the nobby fists of roots that held up the sturdy trees. Bravely, an amphibian croaked, its deep rumbly call an outcast in the otherwise soft and smooth symphony; another blabbered some coded message back —others gurgled in response. Reaching an agreement with each other, the whole forest came alive with the song of hundreds of frogs; small bugs chimed in with a clicking pulsating evening lullaby. Blips of yellow light ignited, dancing above the mellowing water. Cowering in their shelters, the forest's inhabitants had been waiting for the ship to leave. With a smile on their faces, the men began charting their way into the foggy, claustrophobic forest, slogging through waist deep water, vaulting over fallen algae coated trees and ducking under branches.

Four numbing hours wandered by, the charm of Gamor’s fowl swamps had been lost in the mud and haze. In its place: unease; occasionally, in between their burdened surging footsteps, odd deliberate splashes whisked through the fog. When the startling sound of a tree crackling and squeaking rolled over the water, they felt an invisible presence, a coldness that hung in the air, breathing icy breath on their shoulder blades; their skin prickled, feeling the piercing gaze of something shrouded in the darkness. Nervously, with an eye on the path ahead, the other scanning for danger, they continued to trekk along —an unnatural, but familiar sound, faintly drummed off in the forest —Tomb’s gloved fist jutted up, the squad halted immediately. As they stood motionless, trying to put a name to the sound, they began to feel the numbing frigid water that persistently robbed their skin of any warmth. Glade’s eyes went wide — “Blaster fire, DC-15A, I'm certain of it,” he twitched. Right on cue, Tomb’s communicator began chirping in agreement. A tremor crept up their sore spines as they stared at the device; hair on end, as Tomb’s finger fluttered to accept the connection.

—“Help! There’s something in the water! It just jumped out and dragged away the Sergeant!”

It was unmistakably the voice of a clone, his gasping breath rapid and interrupted by yelling, shooting and splashing. The sounds of gunfire drifted over the water in the same patterns as those coming through the comms —“This is fire team Farang, we are close, we are coming to you.” Tomb shakily offered, his face hot, he hated the words as they left his mouth.

“Oh! Thank you, I thought we were alone out he… Kriffing hell, it's coming back! Kill it! Agh AAAaaaAAGHH!”

The voice groaned, struggling as the sound of rushing water and gunfire drowned it out; then it was smothered, replaced by the crunch of failing plastoid armour, the spurting squashing of flesh and the dry cracking of bones. Tomb reeled away from the communicator, sick at what he was hearing. Paralyzing terror welled up in him as his gaze shifted towards the shooting.

Crumbling under his roaring instinct to run, Tomb fought to hold on to his slipping nerves; any reason to get away was good enough. He felt around in himself, finally resting in the calm steady place of his mind he found in the Catacombs of Geonosis. The two step beat of his heart pounding in his ears, as he muscled his way forward; burying the terror with each step as he waded towards the lessening gunfire.

“Come on, let’s give those boys a hand,” Tomb’s voice was confident and assuring; a facade, a show for his men, he had to be steady, or they would falter. Still in formation, surrounded by the dense entanglement of plants, they stood watching their Sergeant fearlessly striding off into the fog, sheepishly, they followed him. With each swishing step, the shooting got louder and less frequent; choked frightened voices grasped Tomb’s attention, their owners masked by the fog. Afraid for his brothers, Tomb tried to run to the fight, stumbling as the water held him back and his feet bogged down into slimy ground: walking was the only option. In the grove ahead of them, the canopy of leaves jolted, bashed by a snarling beast; the blood curdling cry of a clone caught in the creature’s jaw, rang out. His voice often muffled, drowned in the water as the monster violently flailed him around. With a sickening squash, his armour caved in, the screaming suddenly cut off. Eerie silence filled the air. Tomb’s fist rose, the squad happily stopping, as they listened to the beast flitting into the cover of the forest.

“Glade,” Tomb whispered, leaning towards him, Tomb’s arm reaching out, pointing towards the trees ahead of them.

“I want you up there, giving us overwatch,” He said, patting Glade on the shoulder.

“On it, sir,” the marksman replied, he shuffled towards the nearest tree, preparing to scale its titanic grey trunk; he didn’t have to be told twice —eagerly, he hauled himself up, out of the treacherous water, craving the safety of the tree. Turning, Tomb’s visor locked with Dex and Rigger — “You two, with me,” He said softly, they nodded in reply, priming their weapons as the trio crept into the kill zone.

An arm ominously laid draped over a rotten log poking out of the water, the troopers halted, taking in the demoralizing sight; its gloved fingers hung straight down, rather than holding their natural curl, the tendons had been torn away. Rigger tripped over something in the water, feeling it move; eyes squinted, muscles tense, he switched to his thermals, grimacing at the orangey red silhouette of severed legs resting at his feet; he looked around, more heat signatures lay sunken in the water; fading red wisps whisked up from them, the water itself had a patchy fading glow. Rigger shivered at the carnage, finally feeling the water where he stood, it was warm.

Up in the safety of the trees, rifle in hand, Glade scanned the surroundings with his thermals —a dim red silhouette weaved between the dense stand of trees.

“Sir! The monster is 30 yards out, 2 o’clock!” Glade warned, Tomb waved his thanks, turning towards the sound of the creature snaking through the swamp; a film of water and plants smoothly flowed over the monster’s body like a glassy leafy skin; parting around a red fin on the monster’s back. Patiently, the colossal beast circled the group, the radius slowly shrinking; it randomly paused, studying them with a big black soulless eye on the side of its head —Long spiky teeth hung out of its open mouth— Tomb reluctantly made out bits of flesh and body glove caught in its teeth. Clumsily, the troopers sloshed around each other, trying to stay organized so they didn’t shoot themselves when the fish made its move.

“Glade! Light it up, I want to see what happens,” Tomb called, Rigger and Dex nervously looked at Tomb.

—“Aye sir!” He replied, sighting his gun to a clearing in the trees that opened onto the monster’s path. Shattering the quiet, blue bolts ripped up the smooth water, the shots throwing up bursts of steam where they landed. Caught off guard, the fish wove off into the trees, Glade quickly losing sight of it; the sound of it cutting through the water fading.

“Did you hit it!?” Tomb called out, anxiously.

“My first two shots landed, not sure of the others!” Glade called back, sighing to himself.

As seconds turned to minutes, the clones’ guard was dropping. In a repeating rhythm, the water lapped at the roots, and the wind came in gusts, filtering through the leaves, making a moist crinkle; what had sounded so beautiful, now masked the quiet movements of death. As their weapons lowered and their heads shifted the other way, the beast surged out from its impossible hiding place. Masterfully, it had slid its way around the clones, stalking them from where they entered the battlefield.

Glade’s panicked shout hadn’t even cleared his lips when the jaw’s suddenly closed around Rigger; crushing force set in on his body, his armour the only thing separating tooth and flesh as he was flung around. Arms pinned, teeth digging into the gaps of his armor, Rigger cried for help; desperately, the others opened fire. In one fluid motion, the fish threw Rigger’s limp body crashing against the trees, and set in on Tomb. With little effect, bolts slammed into the calloused muddy armor of the fish as it snatched Tomb off his feet. His arm was crushed against his side, the other waving uselessly from the fish’s mouth. His breath was forced out by the smothering vice grip, his back and chest plate being pressed into him. Succumbing to the pain and his vision blurring, he summoned the last of his dwindling strength; struggling to rotate his trapped arm, his world was slipping away, his ears ringing; death was coming to claim its bounty. Partly by skill and chance, Glade sunk a bolt into the fish's eye, recoiling from the horrific blow, the fish loosened its grip for just a moment —it was all Tomb needed— in an instant, his pistol was pointed at the roof of the fish’s mouth. Tomb’s final moments of consciousness drifted away as he blasted a bolt straight into the fish’s head. Gasping for air, as the fish’s bite loosened once more, Tomb unloaded his gun. Hunting for the fish’s brain, he rotated his wrist, until finally, it let out a long fading wince, its writhing body fell limp, dragging Tomb down with it. Dex frantically waded over; kneeling down he heaved on the fish’s locked jaw, trying to pry Tomb loose. Giving up, he drew his knife, digging through the clenched muscle that trapped his Sergeant. Grunting as he hoisted Tomb up, the two stood looking at Glade, who cradled Rigger's punctured body.

“He’s breathing! Barely. I’ll get him patched up, you hear me Rigger? You’re going to be okay,” Glade’s optimism was tainted with doubt. Rigger’s condition worsened by the second, his armour running red with warm watery blood.

“Forget about me, they need you Dex,” Tomb coughed, his own blood trailing down his armour.

“You’re hurt too, sir,” Dex pleaded, grimacing at the gashes on Tomb’s body, he would fade away too if he didn’t get help soon.

“I’ll be fine, just give me a minute to catch my breath.” Tomb wheezed —Dex limped him over beside the others.

“There,” he said, gingerly letting Tomb down by Rigger on a rare patch of grassy muddy ground.

“Now you won’t pass out and drown yourself,” He grinned. Tomb was too weak to refuse when Dex started applying bacta and wrapping bandages to seal it in. Though Tomb missed out on painkillers, Rigger got a monopoly on that luxury. A fuzzy, cloudy 30 minutes later, the chaos and hassle was over.

“What do we do now, sir?” Tomb was half awake when Dex asked him; hands on his knees, he loomed over Tomb, who was splayed out on the bloody grass.

“We see if we can get a hold on anyone… figure out what’s going on,” He groggily replied.

“How’s Rigger?” He groaned, looking over at his maimed friend.

“He’s not bleeding anymore, externally anyway, I can’t be sure for internal though,” Glade answered, letting out a long, penned up breath.

“What are we going to do with him?” Dex whispered.

Tomb thought for a moment, his mind starting to perk up —“It's a brutal assumption, but I’d bet there’s more of those bastards swimming around, which means there’s more squads looking like we do… Command will probably set up some kind of medevac for the wounded,” He sighed, the effects of the bacta already restoring him.

Glade was looking down at Rigger’s comms pack, “We could use that to talk to the rest of the squads, see if they have something in the works; It has a built-in coder too, anyone who picked up the signal would just get some garbled garbage, except our guys.”

Weighing the idea, Tomb’s head shifted side to side.

“Alright, do it, but keep it short and sweet,” He ordered, certain that this action was against the mission protocol; it was worth it, for all they knew, the whole task force could be bleeding out in the woods somewhere.

 

“This is CT-0731, to all 253rd units, men at my position are critically wounded, please advise,” Glade paused, eagerly awaiting a response. Tomb snorted —“I’m not critically wounded,” He playfully stated.

Glade ignored him, a reply crackled through the communicator.

“This is Protector-06, Captain Noble, understood CT-0731, be advised, a medevac has been scheduled to land, transmitting coordinates now, all wounded personnel must be on the X at 0300 hours Galactic standard time.”

Glade checked the time, comparing it with the coordinates he’d just received.

“Coordinates point… 17 klicks North East… We’ve got two hours to make it to the landing zone.”

“We best get moving then,” Tomb sighed. Dex moved to help him walk; Tomb held his hands up in protest —“I’m fine, really, I’m hurting, I’ll give you that, but I can walk,” He begged, Dex nodded, believing him.

“Besides,” he grunted, awkwardly getting onto his feet and shuffling around as he found his balance.

“You’ve got sleeping beauty to carry,” He chuckled.

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Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it.

Done